


ever climbing up the climbing wave

by syllogismos



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2837045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllogismos/pseuds/syllogismos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was easy, at first, keeping the Circus from Richard, but it isn't <em>always</em> easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ever climbing up the climbing wave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rimedio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimedio/gifts).



It was easy, at first, keeping the Circus from Richard, and even after Richard moves in, it works. Richard isn’t stupid. Cracks about how boring Peter’s job is have given way to stone silence and half-hidden, sidelong glares. Richard would be a fool not to have some idea, but they don’t discuss it. They don’t discuss the importance of curtains, but Richard bends to the rule that _the curtains are always drawn_. They don’t discuss altering routes and varying patronage between the shop on the corner and the shop on the other, farther corner, but Richard follows Peter’s example and the milk and bread make longer journeys some weeks, some weeks shorter.

Peter is quiet in bed and has a tendency to keep his eyes closed. Richard just uses this as an excuse to keep him close, to kiss him through every thrust, slow and deep. Peter will sometimes turn his head to the side and catch Richard’s ear in his teeth to stifle a moan, and Richard, unfailingly, grunts in response and pushes deeper, if he’s fucking Peter, or tightens his grip.

On a day when Peter comes home pale and sweaty, his shoulders a defeated line, Richard can’t hold in his initial frustrated disappointment; it’s written all over his face.

“I know it’s late,” Peter snaps, preemptively. “I’m sorry.” He tries to tug the knot in his tie loose with one finger, misses, curses and scrabbles at it ineffectually with both hands before sliding down the wall in a heap.

Richard kneels before him and tips his face up, but only to move it out of the way. He pulls the knot and the tie free, then settles next to Peter, shoulder to shoulder. Peter releases a shuddering sigh and drops his head back against the wall. He reaches for Richard’s hand, and Richard startles for a second, then laces his fingers through Peter’s and squeezes gently. They sit while the clock ticks the seconds past, until Peter rises, pulling Richard up by the hand he’s still holding.

He kisses Richard tentatively.

“Please,” he speaks into Richard’s cheek, drawing Richard’s arms around his waist. “I want you.” He whispers because it’s secret, because it has to be.

* * *

Ricki Tarr, as usual, fucks everything up. When Peter enters the flat, he senses immediately that something is wrong, but he’s not armed, so there’s nothing for it but to pretend he hasn’t noticed and carry on with his usual routine. He shrugs off his overcoat and hangs it up, sets his briefcase on the table in the hall, and heads for the sitting room, where he discovers Ricki with a gun trained on Richard.

As soon as Ricki sees him, he lowers the gun.

“Safety.” Peter’s voice is hard and low.

Ricki thumbs on the safety.

“Put it on the coffee table.”

Ricki is starting to look worried, glancing between Peter and Richard and slowly realising he may have misjudged the situation. Surely Richard has only disclosed the cover they agreed upon (and that Ricki, clearly, had not believed for a second): he’s a family friend, staying with Peter while he looks for a flat in London after just having found a new job. Peter’s steely fury, on the other hand, speaks of something closer to the truth, and Ricki, rude fucking prick though he may be, is not an idiot.

“Yes, Mr. Guillam.”

As soon as he’s laid the gun on the table, Peter is on him, grabbing his left arm and twisting it behind his back, Peter’s right elbow pinning his head to the wall at the sensitive juncture of his jaw and skull, below his ear.

“Why are you here?”

“I missed my flight back, didn’t know where to go. I didn’t know if anyone noticed, so I thought I should talk to you first, Mr. Guillam.”

“I noticed, Ricki. I notice everything. But I haven’t reported it, and I won’t. And you won’t ever break into my flat again. Ever.” Peter releases Ricki’s arm and head, but grabs his hair roughly and uses it to force him to his knees facing the wall. Ricki sits back on his heels and slumps forward. “Yes, Mr. Guillam.”

Peter steps back, avoids making eye contact with Richard in favour of removing his suit jacket and vest. As he’s loosening his tie, Ricki repairs himself to his feet and turns around, locking eyes with Peter but eventually shifting his gaze first. Peter smirks.

“Take your gun with you. I don’t keep things like that in my flat.”

After Ricki has gone, Richard is left sitting on the sofa, sweat soaked through his shirt under his arms, staring at Peter like he’s never seen him before, and all Peter can do is choke on a laugh, bending his fist to his mouth to stifle it. A deep breath. Two.

“Did he hurt you at all?”

“No. Who was he?”

Peter lowers his hand from his mouth and tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves, a vain attempt to put back to rights what Tarr disturbed. “He works for me.”

Richard shakes his head and passes a hand over his face. He stands and stares, blankly, at the wall (not at Peter) for a few moments before he announces, “I need a shower.”

When Richard emerges from the shower, Peter is still in his shirtsleeves and half-undone tie, but there’s a tumbler with a finger of Scotch in it in front of him and the open bottle next to one of his feet on the floor.

“I didn’t like seeing you like that.” The volume of Richard’s voice is low, but he doesn’t need to be loud for his honesty to be brutal.

Peter recoils. “Like _what_?”

“Violent.”

“Ricki is a violent thug. He responds to violence. And, in case you didn’t notice, I was trying to protect you.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I have to like that other side of you. I won’t pretend. I don’t.”

Peter could scream with frustration. “It isn’t some other side of me. There’s only one me.”

“Is there?”

Peter snaps up his tumbler, along with the bottle from the floor, and shuts himself in the bedroom.

Hours later, when Peter emerges from the bedroom desperate for a piss, Richard is on the sofa, putting on at least the appearance of reading a paperback, a half-empty mug of tea at his elbow. Peter avoids looking at him on his way to the loo. On his way back, he pauses, but Richard doesn’t look up from his book. He doesn’t even look up as he says, “I’m not going to ambush you into a conversation when you just needed a slash. If you have something to say, that’s your decision.”

Peter continues to the bedroom, but he pauses at the threshold. “Are you going to apologise?” he asks.

Richard lowers the book to his lap; he turns to look at Peter, and it’s all Peter can do not to flinch.

“Don’t you think we’re both due?” Richard asks, gently accusing.

Peter doesn’t answer, but he leaves the bedroom door open a crack.

* * *

It’s a Saturday when Peter wakes up to Richard sitting on the bed by his head, carding through his hair with one hand, drinking from a mug of tea with the other. When he realises that Peter has woken up, he sets the tea aside and slides down until he’s lying next to Peter. Their shoulders touch, but Richard doesn’t reach for Peter, and Peter doesn’t reach for him.

Peter knuckles at his eyes but keeps his gaze fixed to the ceiling above. “I’m sorry that my least favourite subordinate broke into our flat and threatened you with a loaded gun. I’m not particularly sorry about the manner in which I communicated to him that he shouldn’t do it again, but I do understand it must have been upsetting for you to witness.”

A minute, maybe longer, puts space between them before Richard speaks. “I admit– I don’t think I _want_ to understand. Can you live with that?”

Peter props himself up on an elbow, looking down at Richard. He thinks of Smiley, who carries the Circus with him always and is weighed down by it, bent under more years than he’s lived himself. “Actually,” he answers, “yes.” He cups a hand to Richard’s cheek and bends down to kiss him. Richard wraps his arms behind Peter’s shoulders and pulls him in tightly. This connection—touch, taste, _love_ —is physical and real, no understanding required. It’s not even a compromise, as long as Richard will stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Solstice! I hope you enjoy; I came across your prompt and couldn't help myself...
> 
> Title from Tennyson's "The Lotos-Eaters" (because I have a theme going, so why not):
>
>> What pleasure can we have  
> To war with evil? Is there any peace  
> In ever climbing up the climbing wave?  
> 


End file.
